The First Heretic

first sign of treachery.’

A mere hundred warriors stood opposed to one hundred thousand. Facing an ocean of grey armour, a single company of Ultramarines had made planetfall with their primarch. Even in the gravity of the moment, Argel Tal wasn’t sure whether to be mystified at this display, or insulted by it. He settled for both, his irritation rising all the while.

‘The 19th Company,’ Xaphen voxed, watching the Ultramarines banner waving in the gentle wind. It depicted a rearing white horse with a mane of fire, over a series of numerals. ‘Intriguing.’

Argel Tal watched the white horse rippling in the wind, trying to discern some significance in the 19th’s presence. The creature seemed in motion, the flames of its mane real and burning. Aethon Company, the Ultramarines 19th, was well-known to many outside Guilliman’s Legion. Aethon himself commanded an entire Imperial Expedition away from his primarch, and was rumoured to be a stern ambassador and a shrewd diplomat. Whatever the truth, the captain was trusted with a great deal more responsibility and independence than most other Astartes could ever claim.

‘They are named,’ Xaphen said, ‘for a fire-breathing horse, in ancient Macraggian mythology. Aethon was the name of a horse that pulled the sun-god’s chariot across the sky.’

Argel Tal resisted the urge to shake his head. ‘With the greatest respect, brother, I couldn’t care less.’

‘Knowledge is power,’ the Chaplain replied.

‘Focus,’ the captain snapped back. ‘You heard the primarch.’

Xaphen sent an acknowledgement chime across the vox – a single static buzz.

The final gunship ramp lowered on steam-venting pistons. Argel Tal remained still, his muscles locked tense, as the Thirteenth Primarch descended with his honour guard, followed by...

‘No,’ he said, shock stealing his breath.

‘Blood of the God-Emperor,’ Xaphen whispered.

Ahead of them, Lorgar watched with a viper’s smile. ‘Malcador the Sigillite.’

Next to the primarch armoured in battleplate of pearl and cerulean walked a slender figure in unassuming, plain robes. Human, utterly frail in Gulliman’s massive shadow, the First Lord of Terra clutched a staff of dark metal and rattling chains, topped by a twin-headed eagle.

Guilliman, by contrast, was hulking where the Sigillite was sparse. His warplate was the blue of Terra’s long- burned oceans, an echo from an age of legend, and edged by gold and mother of pearl, glinting in the rising moonlight.

‘What insanity is this?’ snarled Kor Phaeron, his voice thickened by emotion too rancid to suppress.

‘Peace, my friend,’ Lorgar murmured, his gaze never leaving the opposing line of warriors. ‘The answers we seek will soon be ours. Captains, step forward.’

At the command, one hundred captains advanced, bolters and blades held at ease in gauntlets of grey. One hundred Chaplains, their gold trimmings and crozius mauls marking them out from the ranks, remained a step behind. Behind the warrior-priests, a hundred thousand Word Bearers stood at the ready, holding ranks despite the uneven platform made by the pulverised ground.

Argel Tal tore his glance from Guilliman, the Lord of Macragge’s noble features as difficult to look upon as his own father’s. His eyes were the hardest part to take in. There was no doubt, no speculation, no curiosity – nothing that told of mortal emotion behind the deep-set eyes. The face could have been sculpted from suntanned stone. Dignity incarnate.

The Seventh Captain repressed a shiver, and turned his attention to the Sigillite. Too human to fear, yet too influential to ignore. The Emperor’s right hand and closest confidant.

Here.

Here, and apparently supporting the Ultramarines in their destruction of the perfect city. Argel Tal’s hand tightened on the bolter grip.

‘Brother,’ Lorgar spoke, his tones smooth on the surface, almost entirely hiding the tremble of grief his sons knew must be flowing through him. ‘And Malcador. Welcome to Monarchia.’ At these words, he gestured at the devastation, his handsome features lost to a sickened sneer.

‘Lorgar,’ Guilliman’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, and he said no more than his brother’s name.

Argel Tal narrowed his eyes at the absolute neutrality in the tone, not a ghost of emotion. He’d seen automatons in the Legio Cybernetica with more humanity than the Ultramarines primarch.

‘Primarch Lorgar,’ said Malcador, bowing by way of introduction. ‘It grieves us all to meet in these circumstances.’

The golden warrior took a step forward, his crozius resting on his shoulder. ‘Does it now? It grieves us all? You do not look grieved, my brother.’

Guilliman said nothing. Lorgar broke his stare after several moments, regarding the Sigillite.

‘Answers, Malcador.’ He took another step forward, now halfway between his Legion and the hundred Ultramarines. ‘I want answers. What happened here? What madness has been allowed to run unchecked?’

The Sigillite pulled back his hood, revealing a face so pale it bordered on grey unhealthiness. ‘You cannot guess, Lorgar?’ The human shook his head as if in sorrow. ‘Truly, this is a surprise to you?’

‘Answer me!’ the primarch screamed.

The Ultramarines flinched back, several raising weapons in hands that shook with surprise.

Lorgar threw his arms out to the sides, taking in the surrounding devastation a second time, and spit flew from his lips as he roared. ‘Answer me for what you have done here! I demand it!’

‘What do we do?’ Xaphen voxed. ‘What’s... what’s happening?’